


Call of the fal'Cie

by Raziel12



Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Epistolary Format, Gen, Horror, lovecraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 05:34:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raziel12/pseuds/Raziel12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The characters of Final Fantasy XIII featured in series of Lovecraft-flavoured short stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Will and Testament

**A Will and Testament**

We are fortunate that as human beings, our memories are so limited. We struggle simply to recall all the things that we ourselves have seen and felt and can remember nothing at all of what previous generations have encountered save for what precious little is passed down through word or letter. As a man of no small learning with a predilection for history, I have often raged at such limitations. Yet I see now that such limitations are not simply fortunate, they are necessary, for there are some things that mankind was not meant to remember, some truths that are so terrible that to know them would drive us mad. If our ancestor allowed certain memories to fade then perhaps they did so with good reason and it would be wise not to question their decisions.

If my words seem trite, even hackneyed, perhaps they are. However, I can think of very little that I have ever written that I believe in more than the words set down here. For the fact is, if you are reading this, then I, Bartholomew Estheim, am dead and all my worst fears have been confirmed. Ignore, if you can, the paltry, grasping explanations of any physicians who might seek to rule on the nature of my demise – they are well intentioned, but they are wrong. Instead, I would ask that you read what follows and understand the real truth of the matter.

I should say, having warned you of the dangers of thinking too much on certain matters, that the human desire for knowledge is, in most cases, a commendable thing. It is our thirst for knowledge that has elevated us above mere animals, but as I have already said, there are things that mankind is better off having forgotten and to delve too deeply into them can only lead to disaster – disaster of the kind that has surely engulfed me. Still, I consider myself fortunate that even now I cannot grasp the whole of what I have seen and experienced, because if I could, I doubt that I would have strength of mind enough to write down anything at all, and something must be written down, if only so that others do not follow so foolishly in my footsteps. I also hope that this record might spur some action, but I am not so arrogant or foolhardy as to believe that my words alone will suffice for evidence, or even if they do, that men and women of sufficient courage can be found and made to take the necessary steps.

It began not more than two years ago when my wife Nora first became an artist of renown. She had always been gifted with some skill, but toward the end, her art began to take on a cast that was at once unmistakably brilliant yet unbearably terrible. Since her youth, she had loved the sea, and she had painted canvas after canvas of bright, sunlit beaches and gentle, rocking waves. I loved those paintings for there was something of her soul in each of them and her soul has gentle and kind. There was not a person alive who could look at those paintings and not feel at least some measure of the cool sea breeze, or smell at least some hint of the ocean.

However, it was not her paintings of the sea that secured her fame. After a spate of strange dreams of which she would not speak, her painting began to change, and where before the sea had covered all, only crystal remained. Yes, instead of the shimmering beaches that she had painted, or the whispering waves she had loved, she now gave life to canvas after canvas of brooding crystal and I can say without any measure of exaggeration that there was never an artist who so keenly captured the almost sinister glitter of crystal shining in the night, or the sharpness of diamond forests lit by the glow of a murky sun beneath a darkened, storm-ruined sky.

As beautiful as those crystals were, they were dreadful too for there is something chilling about a landscape devoid of any colour save the shine of purest crystal. I wondered too how she could draw vista after vista of crystal when no such place had ever existed. It was as though the world she saw each time she closed here eyes was wrought of crystal and nothing more. There was a strangeness to those crystals also, for the crystals that she painted did not have the appearance of cut gemstones, but rather the appearance of things that had once lived but which had somehow, by some strange power, been transformed entirely into crystal. As a lover of antiquities, I have seen many things wrought of crystal and I can attest that no level of skill could ever allow a jeweller to craft in such detail the things that my wife painted so easily.

No doubt, you have reservations about my thoughts, for crystals have always fascinated mankind and we have always judged them beautiful. Yet there is something terrible, truly terrible, in vast, endless plains of jagged crystal, of a world stripped of vibrant colour and reduced to the shimmer of the sky in countless shining faces. But there was more to it than at, and here I must mark my words closely, for I fear I cannot express accurately what I wish to convey.

The crystals that my wife drew had a curious geometry, an unearthly geometry. There are names for the angles that exist in this world, terms like obtuse or acute, but when I looked into those paintings of hers, I could find no names to describe the angles that I saw. It is a horrible thing to see an angle that seems at once acute and obtuse, to curve both in and out at once. Such sights leave a viewer unable to tell up from down, the sky from the ground, and such confusion can only ever inspire fear. Yet there was more to it than that. As any scholar of art knows, there are certain shapes, certain lines and curves that together strike fear into the heart of mankind. Why this should be so, I cannot say, but the fact remains that there are things that terrify and so many of them share the same shape. There are ancient carving cut into the walls of caves hidden in the Yun mountains that have just the ideal proportions to inspire fear. Those caves are shunned even by the hardy people who still live amongst those ancient peaks, and I can say that what those carvings had in some small measure, my wife managed to capture in its entirety.

But despite the steadily growing horror that consumed me each time I looked upon my wife's work, I was pleased for her. She had struggled for much of her life for the recognition that she deserved and it had always hurt me to see her fine works passed off as mere amateur sketching. It was almost as though the ever so sophisticated doyens of the art world thought that scenes of sunny paradise were worthless, when in fact nothing could be further from the truth. However the so-called experts of the art world might have felt about her previous work, my wife's new paintings caused a sensation. How could they not? Every single person who looked upon them felt the same fantastic shiver of fright, and in the world of art there is precious little more important and prized than the ability to genuinely make others feel – even if what they feel is terror.

So, the accolades came and for a while all was good. I was proud of her, and pleased that her efforts and skill had been recognised. Our son, Hope, was proud of her, as well, though he had few chances to show it, as he spent much of his time away at boarding school. I have no doubt that he resented that, for he wished to spend more time with us, but I am grateful now that he missed much of what was to follow. With any luck, that shall continue to be the case even though my death makes it impossible to be sure of that.

However, no more than six months after the first exhibition of her new paintings, she began to show signs of great mental strain. Her dreams, which had, of late, become very tortured, grew even worse and at last she found herself with no option but to confide in me. She told me of the things she'd seen: vast endless chasms of crystal shaped into mocking imitation of the world around us; a tall spire of crystal rising from the boundless, endless depths of the ocean, its peak surmounted by a titan sphere of coruscating diamond. There was more, of course, but I find myself unable to gather the courage to write of the other… things she spoke of. Soon her visions of that phantasmal world were accompanied by voices, titan voices that in her dreams shook the oceans and tore the heavens with each word they spoke. These voices told her of things, old things, forgotten things, things that all rational men and women know are insane.

The voices spoke of an ancient time when gods had walked the world with men. They told her that those days had passed but that they would come again and that once more the gods would walk the earth and the men that cast them down would tremble and the whole world would burn in the glory and terrified ecstasy of their awakening. What had ruled once, would rule again, and mankind would pay in blood and tears and suffering for the treachery it had shown.

Each night her dreams grew worse and little by little, the joy that my wife had found in recognition ebbed away in the face of the horror that stalked her each time she closed her eyes. The voices and visions grew ever clearer and more insistent and she became convinced that she was not imagining them, that they were, instead, the work of some vile alien intelligence, some ancient, malignant terror that sought knowledge of the outside world through her.

If that sounds impossible, indeed, if it sounds utterly mad, I cannot fault you for thinking so. Certainly, despite my assurances to her to the contrary, I could not quite bring myself to believe her, and I could tell that my scepticism hurt her deeply. Her painting grew ever more frenzied and wild and took up more and more of her time. I was hard pressed to get her to eat or drink and she refused to leave her studio for more than an hour at time despite my best efforts to get her away from what I saw as the centre of her growing madness. Indeed, whenever I returned from giving a lecture at the university where I worked, I would invariably find her hunched over the easel, her face a mask of horror and desperate longing as she brought to life some fresh new crystal nightmare.

And make no mistake, those last paintings that she did were truly terrifying, far more so than anything she had done before. If her earlier works had filled me with a quiet sense of horror and loathing, her last works drove me nearly mad with terror. I could scarcely stand to be in the same room as them, let alone look at them. Her mastery of the geometry of fear, of the architecture of nightmares, had reached a frightening zenith and the fear that had worked so insidiously but effectively in her earlier work now stood proudly at the fore. It tore my heart to look at those paintings and know that she had seen things that all the known laws of science and nature deemed unable to exist.

It was then that I began to feel that those painting were more than simply fright crystallised into impossible perfection. I began to feel that each time I looked into them they looked into me, or rather, something else, whatever it was that had inspired them, looked into me. I could feel the cold gaze of alien eyes upon me, hidden in the jagged mazes of crystal on each canvas, eyes that looked into me and knew me and were filled with ancient loathing and contempt. For the first time, I began to believe that she might be right, that there was something speaking to her, something old and vast and terrible. I wish, how I wish, that I'd had the courage to have her confined then, for though I doubt that a hospital of the mind could have cured her, it might at least have kept her alive.

One cold winter night, I returned home from an evening lecture and she was dead. She was there at her easel in front of a canvas and she was dead. I would have screamed, I think, but there are some sights so horrible that mere screams cannot suffice. I will say, however, that my soul shrieked wildly when I laid eyes upon that last canvas. She had used her own blood on that last canvas, had let it pour from the gashes across her wrists, as she worked in one last frenzy of madness driven creativity. I will not tell everything that I saw painted on that canvas in florid shades of red and brown, but there are some things that I must speak of if my tale is to make any sense. To be safe, I have ordered that painting destroyed in the event of my death, but if it is not, I urge you not to look at it. For you own sanity, for your own soul, I beg you, do not look at it.

I will speak only of two things that were on that painting. The first thing was a face. It was a vast face, a face the size of a mountain and all around it were other faces. All of them had the same look, the smallest of smiles, yet those smiles seemed to hold all the secrets of eternity and to flaunt them in my face. They knew, I thought, as I looked on them, they knew what madness had taken my wife and what was more they revelled in her suffering, in the last, twisted bout of genius that had killed her. On either side of those titan faces were wings, huge, endless wings that swept up to brush the very pinnacle of the sky. I do not think I have to explain what is monstrous about a thing as vast as a mountain range, with faces upon it the size of mountains and wings so great they breach the ceiling of the sky. The second thing on that painting that I must mention is what was behind the giant thing with many faces. It was that spire that my wife had painted so many times before, that tall, slender spire surmounted by a single sphere, both of them glittering darkly with the crimson light of fresh blood.

I don't know how I found the strength to stumble away from that painting and call for an ambulance that I knew could do nothing for her. The whole time, as I waited, I clutched Nora to my chest and wept and always I could feel those eyes on me, could see the mocking smirk on those countless unhallowed faces.

I buried Nora and with her death everything changed. My son never forgave me for not telling him about what had happened, of how her steady descent into delirium had culminated in the creation of one last painting wrought with her own blood. I could hardly blame him, but part of me was glad that he wanted nothing more to do with me. There was a darkness closing in on me, the same darkness that had taken Nora and if distance might keep Hope out its clutches, then I would gladly shoulder all his hatred.

For a few months, I grieved but in time, my sorrow gave way to rage. I became obsessed with finding out why she had gone mad. I needed to know what she had seen and to find the thing that had touched her mind so darkly. If it cost me my fortune, or even my life, I didn't care. I had not bargained on it costing me my sanity.

Still, I was fortunate when it came to starting my search, if the word fortunate can be applied to anything that I have described thus far. I had a solid background in ancient history and many contacts throughout the world that could remedy any gaps in my knowledge. In retrospect, I am ashamed not to have noticed the link earlier, but while my wife was alive, I was hardly thinking clearly.

The link I refer to is the singularly interesting finding that despite all the vast differences in culture and technological advancement that were present amongst the ancient societies of Pulse, all of them, bar none, reference one particular myth. This myth, what I have come to call the Cocoon myth, speaks of the origin of mankind. According to the myth, mankind was not born on Pulse, but rather on another world, a world of paradise and glory where men and gods walked side by side. But the cost of living in such a paradise was steep – the gods demanded absolute obedience. However, mankind has always sought freedom, and so mankind rebelled and the gods were cast down. As punishment for their crimes, the gods used the last of their waning power to cast mankind from paradise and into Pulse, the world we know today.

That version of the myth fit with the fiendish hints of vengeance provided by the voices my wife had heard. Yet, I could not shake the sense that something was missing. The breakthrough came when a colleague of mine shipped back a whole crate of relics taken from a ruined city built high in the horrid peaks of the Yun mountains. Amongst those battered relics there was a stone tablet, and upon that tablet was a drawing that matched with awful exactitude the titan thing with many faces that my wife had drawn. However, to my disappointment, there was no name for the thing on the tablet, or rather there had once been a name, but it had been scratched out as though the writer feared to put in letters what this thing was called.

With this discovery, I felt certain that I had at last found a solid lead, and so I waited eagerly for my colleague to ship back more of his discoveries. I was not disappointed. More artefacts arrived and once again, a few of them bore that same terrible image, and upon all of them, the name was effaced. There were other tablets too, but these bore the image of the spire and sphere, and I knew, I knew without doubt that what the Yun had seen was the same as what my wife had.

I gathered what money I could and set off into the Yun mountains. For those who have not been there, the Yun mountains are a terrible place. The peaks are tall and wind swept and the winter there never seems to end. The clouds are too thick there, as well, and when the night comes, the shadows cling too closely for my liking. If I'd been in my right mind, I would have stayed no more than a night, but by then I was possessed, driven by fear and vengeful wrath to uncover what had happened to my wife. Thus I pressed on, ignoring the advice of all the guides that I hired and the frantic pleas of the locals.

There was, I was told, an old woman who lived in the mountains. She was a shaman, a priestess, a keep of old stories and ancient tales, the last link of a chain that stretched back to the ancient days. That no historian had spoken with her surprised me, but then I learned that many had tried, and all had been refused. Still, I made the journey to her lodgings deep in the mountains and resolved to show her the painting that my wife had made with her own blood. The moment that the old woman's eyes fell upon the painting, she gave a great wail and her hands clawed at the air in eldritch, obscure gestures of warning as she babbled prayer after prayer in a language that I could neither place nor understand. I put the painting away and followed her inside and there with the winter winds howling their hate and rage, she spoke softly of things that even she could barely remember and that her people had never had the courage to write down.

The old woman spoke of a world that the Old Gods had built to house mankind. It was a place of paradise where mankind wanted for nothing. But beneath that paradise was a terrible secret for the Old Gods had another goal. The Old Gods, for all their might and power, were not the first gods and they sought to call back the one who had created them, to awaken the Maker from countless aeons of dreamless sleep. To do that, the Old Gods would need a fire, a fire so hot and bright that its light would shine even unto the edges of creation and past that to the lands of dream where the Maker slumbered. Mankind would be the fuel for that fire, their souls, the light it cast.

Only the Great Mother Goddess, Divine Etro objected and so, in secret, she spoke to the leaders of mankind and chose from them some who would serve as her champions and wield her power against the other Old Gods. Somehow, her plan succeeded and Divine Etro was able to work a great magic that transformed the false world created by the Old Gods into a prison wrought of purest crystal. Unable to kill them, she cast the crystal prison into a place far beyond the reach of mankind, to a place where no mortal science or magic could ever reach.

And so the Old Gods lay there beyond the reach of mankind, brooding in the primordial darkness into which Divine Etro had cast them. But the crystal prison was not perfect, and so the minds of the Old Gods reached out, prying, hoping, searching for someone who could hear them, for someone who could free them. Over the years, they spoke to countless special individuals and in exchange for knowledge and power those individuals swore loyalty to the Old Gods. In exchange for their gifts, the Old Gods demanded that certain rituals be conducted, that certain things be done, so that one day they might walk the world again, free and unbound. It might take aeons, but the Old Gods had time, and one day those that served them would succeed.

The old woman told me that the Old Gods often sought out those of sensitive nature, such as the poets and the painters, the scientists and the dreamers. One of them, she said, had reached out and found my wife, but no matter how I asked, she would not say which one. It was only when I once more threatened to show her the painting that she relented. She told me that the one I sought was known as The Betrayer, the Lord of Lies, the Master of the False Paradise. She warned me also, that I should destroy the painting. To speak his name or draw his image gave him power and it was the blasphemous act of depicting him that had driven the ancient Yun to ruin and despair. It would be better, she said, if the world forgot him, for to think of him might draw his attention and no mortal mind could withstand him for long.

I left the Yun mountains and returned home, but scarcely two weeks passed before I received word from some of the contacts that I had made there. Sometime in the night, not long after I had visited her, the old woman had been killed, and in such a manner that my correspondent could not put it into words. What my correspond did say, was that the old woman's face had been such a mask of soul-shattered horror that they had been forced to cover her lest they themselves be driven mad. But there was more. On the walls of the old woman's home, drawn in her own blood, was the same titan thing with many faces and behind it, once again, that tall crystal spire with a single glittering orb atop it.

If I had feared before, my terror now knew no bounds. Real, physical forces had reached out and slaughtered the old woman and it was not unlikely that a similar fate might befall me. After all, the woman had spoken of a cult, of followers sworn to the Old Gods and whether or not these monstrous ancient entities truly existed, their followers certainly did. A sort of furtive desperation overtook me and I severed all contact with my friends and colleagues lest they be drawn into this circle of doom. At the same time, I was forever watching myself, my eyes looking all around me in some weak attempt to forestall the doom that must surely come for me.

As a result of all this, a most disturbing change came over my appearance as I began to neglect all but the barest necessities of hygiene. At the same time, my speech grew rough and coarse, and I spoke only when I had to and never to anyone that I cared about. I began to dream then, as well, and each time I closed my eyes, I was witness to endless fields of diamonds spread beneath a broken, blackened sun. Madness had come for me, but if I were to die, I would strive to learn as much as I could, for surely there was nothing else now that I could do. Yet, I now I wish I'd simply taken a revolver to my head. It would have been swifter and more merciful by far that what lay ahead of me.

I sought any information that I could find about the cults that worshipped the Old Gods and I searched also for any information about others that might have shared the madness that afflicted my wife. I eventually stumbled upon the tale of a small chain of islands in the middle of the ocean. The islands had once been home to a thriving fishing community yet at the very same time that my wife had first begun to paint crystals and dream of horrid things, something had happened and all the fishermen had left. It took some investigation, but I was able to locate several fishermen from those islands that had settled not all that far from me.

As soon as I could, I spoke with them and asked them what had happened. At first, they did not wish to speak, but I had money and liquor enough to motivate them. According to the fishermen their islands had long been good for fishing and generations of them had made their livings there, hauling in what the sea provided. But all of that changed when a series of tremors shook the islands.

At first, the islanders were relieved. Although the tremors had been quite violent, no one had been harmed. Yet, as the days passed, the tremors continued and before long the fish fled the islands. Worse, many of the islanders began to see strange lights in the water at night and soon they grew too afraid to even approach the ocean once the sun had set. A few brave fishermen dived deep into the water and they found that where before the waters near the islands had been reasonably shallow, a vast chasm had opened up. This chasm seemed to reach down into the very heart of the earth and no equipment they had seemed able to properly gauge the depth. Not long after that, the dreams started, and the dreams they spoke of filled me with horror, for they were all but identical to the dreams that had plagued first my wife and now me.

With the fish gone, many of the islanders wanted to move, but they had lived there all their lives and few of them had the money to start elsewhere. And then outsiders came with more money than the islanders had ever seen. The outsiders paid the islanders handsomely to leave and with the fish gone and more money than they'd ever dreamed of in their pockets, the islanders saw little reason to refuse. Of course, there were a few who protested, for the islanders had lived there for generations and part of their soul was in those islands, but those few seemed to vanish, their boats swallowed by the waves when they were out at sea. Now, the islanders said, only the outsiders were there and they allowed no one onto the islands.

I knew without a doubt that I had to go to those islands. I was beginning to run low on funds for I had set up a trust for my son so that in the event that the worst should befall me, he would not want for money. I could tell too, that he wished to speak with me. Perhaps he regretted the harsh words that we had both spoken when we had last parted, or perhaps he simply wished to inform me that he wanted nothing more to do with me. In any case, I refused his calls for a meeting and set out for the islands. By then, I was all but certain that death was coming for me and resolved to keep him out of things. I had failed his mother, but I would not fail him.

No plane would take me to the islands, so I took a plane to the closest port and sought to find a ship that would carry me the rest of the way. However, no ship would take me, and many of them refused to even admit that the islands existed. By chance, I stumbled upon a conversation between two pilots and as I listened intently, they spoke of the strange lights they'd seen in the water near the islands and the unearthly crystals that had been hauled up onto the peaks of all the hills that dotted the islands. They spoke, as well, of the way their instruments failed them as they grew closer to the islands and of the strange, eerie voices they heard booming through their radios. I approached one of them and asked if he would fly me over the islands at night, but he refused and when I questioned him about what he'd said, he denied having said anything of the sort and hastened away.

So, almost despairing at my chances of ever reaching the islands, I spent a good fortnight at the port, skulking about in search of someone who would take me. But despite my pleas and the offer of a sizeable reward, no one would take me. However, I did learn a little more about the islands' denizens. A few weeks prior to my arrival, a boat had ventured closer than usual to the islands. There had been ten people on that boat, all of them expert sailors, yet when the boat finally drifted back to shore, not a single person had been found on it. It wasn't a matter of piracy either, for there were no signs of a struggle, nor was any of the boat's equipment missing. The sailors were simply gone.

Finally, I struck upon some luck. By chance, I was able to sneak aboard one of the ships moored at the port and while its owners amused themselves at one of the dingy port bars, I set off toward the islands. It was just going on dusk then, and if I had not been so frantic or desperate, I would have waited, but I did not know if I would get another chance, and so I seized the opportunity despite all that I had heard of the strangeness that overtook the islands after dark.

The ship was an old one, but a quiet one and for that I was glad. As I got closer to the island, I began to feel as though I was no longer alone. I saw the shine of something in the water ahead and made the mistake of looking into the water. There were… things down there, shining, shimmering, flowing things made of crystal and in their maddeningly ethereal forms, I could have sworn that I saw my Nora. For a moment, I almost leapt overboard, but in the end, I was able to wrestle my wits back and just in time too, for had I dallied but a moment longer, I would have run aground on the jagged rocks that loomed ahead, their surfaces brighter and shinier than the water and moonlight could explain. Yes, in the moonlight, those rocks looked almost like crystals.

I steered the ship past the rocks and into a lonely cove and from there I made my way inland. The islanders had told me of the villages that they had built, but of these I found no sign. In their place, I found a temple, a towering edifice of finely cut stone that was the equal of any cathedral I had ever seen. The temple stood upon the top of a hill and at its peak, soaring high as any belltower was a single gigantic crystal cut so that it mirrored that awful image my wife had drawn: the spire surmounted by a sphere. Elsewhere on the temple, crystal had been used to fashion horrible statues and amongst them I recognised the many faced thing that Nora had painted.

Gathering my swiftly flagging courage, I crept as close as I dared and listened keenly as chanting began within. Parts of it were spoken in a language that I did not know, and the walls of the temple muffled much of what was said, but it was clear to me that this was some kind of ritual. As I said, I could not understand much of the ceremony, but I will try to set down some of what was said.

"The time of awakening is close!" the leader of those within the temple cried.

"Praise be to the Lord of Cocoon!" the followers replied.

At another point in the ceremony, the leader of the temple began to call out names, some of which I could understand, others of which seemed to be almost random collections of sounds put together. The names I could make out included: Eden, Phoenix, and Orphan.

Later, the leader began to speak of all the glories that would be theirs so long as they could stay the course. He spoke of the gifts that the Old Gods had given them, and of how their return would lead to the rebirth of paradise, to a world purified of sin and made whole and pure and perfect as the crystal world that slumbered beneath the waves. The Old Gods might be imprisoned for now, but at last, after countless storied ages, the time was right. The keys to their prison would soon appear and all they needed to do was seize them. Once the Old Gods were free, those who served them would be rewarded, exalted as the blessed amongst mankind in a new golden age.

I knew then that I had to leave as quickly and quietly as I could. These people were insane and I did not doubt for a moment that in their fervent zeal they would butcher any who dared stand against them. But just as I turned, those inside the temple began to chant, their words rising and falling in a freakish parody of the hymns used to praise Divine Etro. As their chants rose to a dizzying, unholy crescendo there was a crack as of lightning and the sky above the temple rippled and tore.

"Orphan!" the leader of the temple wailed. "Hear our prayer and let us lay eyes upon your majesty. Please, appear before us now, Orphan, Heart of the World and Harbinger of the Promised Land."

From the depths of that tear in the sky came light, glorious light. It shone with all the intensity of the sun but with a colour for which no words exist. Voices filled the air, a maddened, crazed cacophony of heretical ecstasy as the body of some gigantic, world-crushing thing appeared. It was a giant of gleaming metal, a shimmering wheel of golden radiance that shone with unhallowed brightness. To look upon it was to know perfection and I felt my eyes begin to burn with the brightness of its unholy glory. Slowly, it began to spin, and the way it moved was enough to almost drive me mad for no wheel should be able to spin like that, and its substance seemed to somehow occupy more than the usual three dimensions.

But worse was to come, for as I looked, unable to turn away, the monstrous thing spoke. Its voice filled the air like a thousand peals of thunder and I fell to my knees. Blood poured from my eyes and nose and mouth and ears and each second that I listened seemed like an age. I will not, cannot write, what I heard in those few moments, but suffice it to say, I wish I had not heard.

And then, just as quickly as it had come, the glowing, seething, writhing wheel of impossible perfection and unearthly glory vanished. In its wake, the sky rippled once more and the crowd inside the temple fell silent, their eyes gleaming with mind-broken satisfaction. As I stumbled to my feet, I wondered if what I had seen was truly the real form of that thing they called Orphan. My soul quivered and inside me I felt primordial memories stir. No, I realised, it could not have been, for it had been, I would have died where I stood, my body and soul shattered by Orphan's glory, my mind torn asunder by the merest brush of its thoughts against my own.

But I had dallied too long in my thoughts for the people inside the temple had recovered and as I sought to leave, they spotted me and gave chase. Still half insane from what I had seen and with my body still burning from Orphan's unearthly golden flame, I fled as best I could. How I got to my boat, I cannot say. All that I know is that somehow, in my panicked, terrified delirium, I managed to get to my boat and cast off. However, I do remember gunshots and cursing and the glitter of crystals that have no place on the face of this earth. I managed to get back to the port I'd left, and exhausted, I could only lie there as the stunned locals cried out in surprise and summoned help.

I took what help I could from the locals, but refused to answer any of their questions. They were better off not knowing and I knew that those that I had evaded on the islands would not be far behind. I left the next morning and went at once to my lawyers to write down this testament of all that I had seen. Already, I could feel my life slipping from me and each time I closed my eyes, I was once again back on the island staring up at the glowing, burning, blazing, writhing wheel of godless perfection that was Orphan.

For a time, I considered going to the police, but I quickly discarded the idea. They would never believe me, and the sorry change in my behaviour since the death of my wife could just as easily be attributed to nervous strain as any real threat. But even if they did believe me, by what law could they go to the islands and by what power could they hope to stifle the horror that those vile cultists had awakened. And yet, my other options were few, for I cared too much for my colleagues and friends to drag them into this. My son, I knew, could never be allowed to know.

It wasn't long before I began to feel death's grasp closing in and this time, I was certain I would fall. One time I was nearly run over crossing the street and another time I almost tumbled down the stairs, but I was sure that I had been pushed and that the car had swerved just a little to try and hit me. If the Old Gods didn't kill me, their servants surely would.

And that is why I have written all this down. If I should die then at least the authorities might read this document and by my death know that my words were true. I can only hope that the executor of my will has the good sense and fortitude to follow my instructions. Show this to the authorities but do not show this to my son. In fact, if the authorities refuse to believe what I have written, then take this document and all the other evidence that I have included with it and burn them, all of them. But I beg you, please, do whatever is in your power to make the authorities believe that these are not simply the ramblings of a lost and broken man. There are things going on upon those islands that should not be. Laws older than science and nature have been broken and the price for that may be too high for the world to bear.

Those islands must be destroyed along with everyone on them. If this sounds monstrous, know only that the alternative would be even worse. Blast the temples and cast all those accursed crystals into the sea and never again let anyone set foot on those islands. Pay close attention to the paintings and sculptures that have come into vogue recently. Although none have had the diabolical brilliance that my wife showed, there are things in some of the newer works hanging in galleries across the world that hint all too clearly that the end is fast approaching. If action is taken, the presence of these works might serve as some sort of guide. If they continue to be produced, then the madness of the Old Gods endures, if not, perhaps we have bought ourselves a reprieve.

In any case, I beg you, do not view my writings as those of a dead man driven mad by the loss of his wife. View them instead as the last hope and wish of a man who has done all that he can and now finds himself in the grip of a terror as inescapable as it is ancient. But most of all, do not let my son, Hope, know of this. If you must, tell him I died grief-crazed and foolish, but do not let him know what really happened. He is too much like me to simply walk away and I fear that should he read this, his path will be much the same as mine has been. Do not let that happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I neither own Final Fantasy, nor am I making any money off this. I don't own any of the works of H. P. Lovecraft, either.
> 
> I've been meaning to write something with a more Lovecraftian twist for a while now, because I think the mythology of FF XIII really does lend itself quite nicely to Lovecraft's style. For those who are curious, the stories by Lovecraft that most heavily influenced this chapter are "The Call of Cthulhu" and "The Shadow Over Innsmouth". If you are at all interested in horror, I strongly recommend giving them a read. It was also nice to take off my (metaphorical) Western hat for a while and put on my (equally metaphorical) Lovecraft hat.
> 
> As always, I appreciate feedback. Reviews and comments are welcome.


	2. The Whisper of Thunder

**The Whisper of Thunder**

To Professor Bartholomew Estheim,

I hope that my letter finds you well, or at least, as well as you can be given all that has befallen you. Too often we who delve into the dark places of the world find that the darkness is a far easier place to enter than it is to leave. It marks our souls, and stains our hearts, and it always, always lingers.

I must apologise for the delay since our last correspondence. I know that the matters of which you wish to speak are of considerable urgency, but rest assured, I did not withhold my reply without good reason. By nature, I am taciturn, not given to speaking deeply of myself or my experiences. But there are things that must be said, and I am the only one who can say them. I do not consider myself a coward, but it is only now, several months after the fact, that I find myself with the courage to speak. In return for my story – my full story – I ask only three things in return.

The first thing is easy enough, and it is, I imagine, a condition that you yourself would impose if you were in my position. Share this letter with no one. I have no doubt that my words will shake even a man of your formidable reputation, so consider for a moment the impact they might have on a less hardened soul. What I have experienced has turned this world of wonder into a place of abyssal, shrieking terror. I will have no part in passing on such horror to those not prepared to face it. If you fear that this letter will fall into the wrong hands then destroy it. If necessary, I shall furnish you with another.

The second thing that I require is your cooperation. We have both touched unhallowed spheres of nightmare well beyond the realm of everyday existence. Though I am seldom one to seek aid, I find that in this matter I have little choice. We are both sailing through troubled waters now, little more than battered ships set upon some roiling ocean of infinity. We can band together, or else, find ourselves separated and damned to perish in ways too terrible for the mortal mind to fully comprehend. Alone, I might risk such a thing, but I have my sister to consider, just as you have your son.

The third and final thing that I ask of you is the most simple yet perhaps it shall also prove to be the most difficult. I ask that you read this letter in full. You are a wise man, professor, and your mind is swift. I have little doubt that the full horror of my disclosure will dawn on you well before my tale is done. Pray, sir, have patience. A story half-told is little more than a half-truth, and we have come too far now to settle for anything less than the whole of the truth. Indeed, anything less may drive us mad – or madder than we already are.

So, those are my conditions. If you feel that you cannot abide by them, then I suggest you destroy this letter now. Do not rip it up, for a cunning man might piece it back together. Instead, if you must, burn it and then scatter the ashes. Let the winds carry away any trace of monstrous mystery. Should you choose to proceed, allow me to make an offer. Upon reading this letter, you will, doubtless, have many questions, the answers to which I dare not put on paper. If you wish to hear these answers then you must come to visit me in Bodhum. Together, we can speak of these final mysteries, and together, we can walk amongst the ruins of elder times that brood, old and silent in the hills nearby.

Should you wish to visit Bodhum, I would recommend the train. The services are most frequent, and there is a certain anonymity involved that cannot be matched by aerial travel. The train will also afford you with another convenience – the Bodhum Guardian Corps central office is not at all far from the station. I know that you may be leery of the authorities, and you have good cause to be, but my superior, Lieutenant Amodar, is a good man. He may not wholly believe my tale, but he has followed many of my recommendations nonetheless. I suggest that you ask either for him, or for me, Sergeant Claire Farron.

With all of the preliminaries aside, let us turn now to my tale. Remember, professor, if you have read this far, you must read all the way to the end. There is no room left for half-measures, no room left for weakness. The truth may be unspeakable, but to ignore it would be unthinkable.

I suppose that it would be best to begin with a brief history of myself. This may seem a little odd, but I assure you, it is relevant. I am the daughter of two fairly unremarkable professionals. My father, who died when I was only four, was a businessman of reasonable success. I remember that he was away often, and that when he died my mother would spend hours at the window watching the sky toward the sea. My mother was a doctor of some skill, specialising in the study of genetics, and there are parts of her work that, to this day, remain unsurpassed by more modern experts. She became frightfully involved in her research during my early teens and then recoiled from it with a horror that has always startled me – until now. There are things, professor, that can break the mind of even the most ruthlessly logical person. In any case, she vanished when I was fifteen, ostensibly swept to her death during an ill-fated swim early one morning. An accident, I was told, though now I have my doubts.

I was thus parentless at fifteen, and with a younger sister to care for, I turned my attention to the acquisition of a stable career. My parents were not poor, and we had been left adequate funds, but I was not so foolish as to think that those would last forever. I finished high school, and at eighteen years of age, I joined the only group that would have me – the Guardian Corps.

Believe me, professor, when I say that the Guardian Corps were my salvation. I was lost, and in the enforcement of law and order, I was found. My service records reflect this. I took every class that I could, took part in every training program that was available, and as I rose through the ranks, I swiftly gained a reputation as someone who could solve crimes that baffled officers many years my senior. What my records do not reflect is how I solved these crimes.

There are officers of the law, professor, that bring to bear their intellect and experience to solve crimes. Such officers rely upon the gradual accumulation of evidence and the application of strict logic to that evidence. I am not one of those officers. To be sure, my mind is quick, and problems of reasoning are no challenge to me, but it is another talent that has allowed me to succeed where others have failed. Tell me, are you familiar with the term 'intuition'? It is a clumsy word, I suppose, but I can think of no other word that is more appropriate.

For as long as I can remember, I have been blessed with a remarkable intuition. It is nothing so gaudy as telepathy or precognition, those tawdry talents so often claimed by the latest fraud. On the contrary, what I possess is something altogether more subtle. It is a feeling, a sense of knowing that allows me to notice things, things that do not fit, things that are out of place. Such an ability might seem utterly pedestrian, but to an officer of the law it is invaluable. No crime is ever perfect, and thus no crime can truly evade my intuition.

But such intuition is not without its flaws, as my story shall show. The issue at hand is that my intuition has no sense of self-preservation. It does not tell me if something is dangerous or not, it does not steer me away from things better left unseen. No, my intuition merely spurs me on, driving me inexorably onward until I can make all of the pieces fit, never mind how terrible the true picture is. There is a reason, professor, that mankind is unable to truly piece together all that it perceives. To know everything is to realise the truly precarious position we hold in the universe. We are but dust beneath the boots of beings that could shatter creation with a thought. Ignorance grants us peace, however false it may be.

Now, let me turn in earnest to the details of the case that forms the centre of my story. It begins, as most cases so famous do, with murder most foul. What makes this all the more remarkable is that Bodhum is not, generally speaking, a town much given to brutal murders. Growing up, I had always felt quite safe walking the streets, and there are few who live here who would disagree. Now, perhaps, I do not, but the reason for that is still to come.

Bodhum, professor, is an old town with a history that goes back at least several centuries. In the beginning, it was a fishing town, well known for the bounty of its catch. However, the coming of the modern age saw a substantial reduction in that bounty to the point where the town's continued existence could not be guaranteed. To combat this danger, a decision was made perhaps half a century ago to modernise. Bodhum would be a fishing town no longer, instead it would rely upon its great natural beauty, upon the clear, shining waters, and the endless beaches of gold and white sand. Since then, Bodhum has prospered as a tourist destination of some renown.

As a town heavily reliant on the money of outsiders, the murders swiftly became something of a media sensation. Indeed, even a casual perusal of the newspapers at the time, both local and national, will reveal a swathe of luridly detailed coverage, devoted less to the specifics of the crime than to all manner of sordid speculation. Even so, the murders could not be allowed to go unsolved. Visitors to the town needed to feel safe, and so a decision was swiftly made to establish an inquiry with the Guardian Corps in command. As someone renowned for their ability to solve even the most puzzling crimes, I was soon placed in charge, reporting directly to Lieutenant Amodar.

There were, as you can imagine, matters of town politics to consider, but of those I can say little. I am not, by any stretch, an adept politician, and I wisely chose to leave such matters to Lieutenant Amodar. Though a skilled officer in his own right, he is also a skilled politician, one well used to handling the pressures of a high-profile case. His support would allow me to approach the case unhindered by the often petty demands of the local political class.

The victims of the crime were a dozen workmen assigned to a work a late shift on the construction site of a hotel not far removed from the finest beach in Bodhum. They had been found strewn about in the muddied ruins of a shed, the structure itself ripped and torn apart as though by brute force alone. The men themselves had been torn limb from limb in a manner that is difficult to fully describe. Suffice it to say that they were covered in marks of the type usually left by teeth or claws, but with the curious addition of burns of a most uncanny sort. That the men had tried to fight their assailants was clear enough – their tools of the trade were scattered about, and many bore signs of frenzied, panicked use.

I decided at once that a most thorough investigation was required. A murderer, or murderers, of such brutality could not be allowed to move about Bodhum unimpeded and unopposed. Some of my more fanciful colleagues suggested that perhaps animals had been responsible, but Bodhum – as I knew it then – has no wildlife of sufficient size or ferocity to commit such acts, nor had any zoo or reserve reported any animals missing.

With the officers I had charge of, I ordered a complete halt to the construction of the hotel, and adopted a policy of strictest detail. Every man and woman who had ever set foot on the construction site was to be apprehended and questioned. No alibi was to be left unchecked, and no detail was to be missed. The construction site itself was thoroughly searched for any sign of a murder weapon or other physical evidence, yet in this pursuit we were, unfortunately, opposed by the vagaries of nature.

Though normally of admirable weather, Bodhum is, now and again, cursed by powerful thunderstorms. These storms roll in from the sea and move with a speed that can be quite frightening to those not used to such things. In duration, they rarely last longer than a night, but it is not unusual for the storms to carry truly fearsome power. Still, they are usually quite rare during the tourist season, which runs from mid spring to early autumn. For as long as I can remember, I have always been able to tell when such storms have been coming, as had my mother.

In any case, such a storm struck the night of the murders, and it was remarkable not only for its timing – during the middle of the tourist season – but also for its violence. It was not at all difficult to imagine the workmen being forced to seek shelter within the shed, only to find themselves assailed by some grim cadre of killers. The thunderstorm lashed Bodhum for most of that night and into the early hours of the morning, and it did more to obliterate physical evidence than the perpetrators ever could.

In some ways, I suppose, that was a mercy. There is something truly horrifying about walking into the scene of a crime and wondering how a human being could possible have so much blood inside them. Still, closer examination of the shed and the bodies did reveal the most peculiar burn marks. These were not dissimilar to those often left by lightning, yet to find so many of them so close together was unusual in the extreme. There was no way that lightning alone could have left such injuries, and the odds of a dozen workers being murdered and then repeated struck by lightning seemed impossibly small. Even so, some of my colleagues wished to consign the whole matter to bad luck. Fools.

With my investigation stymied, and public pressure mounting, it will come to no surprise to you to learn that I was soon the subject of many ultimatums that even Lieutenant Amodar's influence could not erase. Those in power wanted answers, and a criminal upon whom to foist the blame. I could either deliver one, or find myself a new profession. Confronted by such threats, I did what I always do when confronted by an apparently unsolvable case. I reviewed the evidence, returned to the scene of the crime, and let my intuition do what it could.

I returned to the scene of the crime, and alone, I wandered through the construction site. Let me say, professor, that there is something truly eerie about walking the earth where twelve good men have died in a way that ought not be told. Yet at the time, my mind cared little for such thought, nor for how the shadows lengthened as the later afternoon gave way to night. Even the darkening of the sky was of little concern for I had felt the storm coming and had dressed accordingly.

But it was only with the first crack of thunder that my intuition seized hold of something. As the rain pelted down upon me, a thought occurred. How had the culprits gotten in? I, along with most of my colleagues, had simply assumed that they had either scaled the fence around the construction site, or copied the keys to the gates. But truly, how much sense did those conjectures make? The fence around the construction site was formidable indeed and topped with barbed wire, and there was no sign of damage to it. Similarly, the keys were all kept securely by honest men, and no investigation had uncovered an opportunity for them to be copied. So how had the culprits done it? Watching great torrents of water sluice past, I came to a realisation. The construction site had not flooded during the previous storm. Therefore, the water must have somewhere to go, and perhaps that was the route the culprits had taken.

In something close to a frenzy, I followed the rushing, frigid water through the construction site. Despite my long, waterproof coat and sturdy boots, I soon found myself drenched, but I could scarcely bring myself to care. At last, I came upon what I sought. It was a tunnel, one almost hidden in the partially laid foundations of the building. In terms of size and scope it was nothing especially remarkable. Indeed at first glance, I almost thought it was one of the sewer tunnels that ran beneath the town, which was likely why it had not come to my attention until now.

But looking more closely, I found myself surprised by the tunnel's apparent method of construction. Tunnels in Bodhum are generally built in one of two ways. Either they are paved with stone, or reinforced with concrete. There is nothing remarkable about this. Rather, it is a simple matter of practicality. A proper sewer system is essential to a town's functioning, and one simply dug into the earth is unlikely to last long. Yet the tunnel was precisely that – simply dug out of the earth. As I grew closer, I used my flashlight to play further illumination upon it, and I soon noticed something else that was quite unusual. The edges of the tunnel were not rough, as they should be if cut by a drill or a shovel, rather they were smooth, almost as though the earth had been carved out by some incredibly hot instrument.

For a moment, I debated entering that tunnel, and I wish now that I had not. Certainly, my mind would be much more at ease. But my intuition, that lingering whisper that something did not fit, that something needed to be pursued still further, my intuition drove me onward. I am not an especially curious person, but I am a very determined one. I had a task before me, and I would see it through. Besides, I could hardly afford the loss of my career. So, beating back my unease, I drew my pistol and edged into the tunnel, mindful of the water rushing about my feet. Should I stumble upon the murderers, I had a duty to try and apprehend them alive to face a proper trial. However, having seen first hand what they were capable of, I had no desire to become their latest victim. They would surrender themselves into my custody, or I would bring them to justice in an altogether more ruthless way. Still, I could not help but feel some trepidation. I was confident in my training, and in the speed and skill I had developed over the years, but the pounding of the water around me, and the crack of thunder did much to dull my senses. The darkness too did not help. It granted the already macabre setting an unnecessary level morbidity.

I followed that tunnel for what felt like an eternity, and I cannot tell you in words what sort of an ordeal it was. There is something unspeakably terrible about delving deep into the unlighted parts of the world. My face must have been a foul sight too, for with each moment that passed, I grew more and more certain that I was about to stumble upon some eldritch secret. At length, the movement of the water at my feet led me to believe that the tunnel had begun to slope quite steeply downward. I was swamped with fresh revulsion then. I was a wanderer, a digger of secrets in the dark, unhallowed places of the earth. Murderers had walked this path, and I felt certain that I would soon encounter them. I should have turned back then, but I did not, and I can only call myself a fool.

At last, I reached more solid ground. To my surprise, the tunnel, which seemed well worn, had connected to one of the many sewers that ran beneath the town. The smell, as you can imagine, was horrid, but I pressed on, driven once more by that same intuition that that had already served me so well. In my wanderings, I found more tunnels, some made by men, but others clearly of the same sort that I had first followed. That I had heard nothing of these strange tunnels did not surprise me – sewer maintenance is a necessary, but altogether unpleasant duty. There were not many willing to explore, and even fewer willing to share the fruits of such exploration.

I followed one of these unusual tunnels, a winding thing where the flow of water seemed slowest. It was a strange experience, made even stranger by the fact that I could hear the thunder raging overhead. There must be other tunnels, I realised, that connected to the surface. A shudder ran through me at that thought, though I would only later realise why I found such an idea so troubling. Finally, I reached a broadening in the tunnel, a chamber too large for the feeble light of my torch to fully illuminate. If I had to guess, I would place the size of the chamber as similar to that of a small building. Instead, I was forced to play my flashlight back and forth in hopes of catching some glimpse of what was held within. When at last, I did see something, I was hard-pressed not to scream, and it was only my iron will that kept me from turning and running in a chaotic burst of sheer animal fright. The floor of the chamber was littered with bones, some animal, some human, and others of a viler, much more indeterminate sort. These bones – which seemed to be of some degraded ape – had claw-like hands, and scraps of pale hair still clinging to the skulls, though the light was too poor for me to accurately tell the colour. Still, the hair was of a pale shade, something blonde or close to it.

But as I lingered there, another crash of thunder rang out, but this time it was answered from deep within the network of tunnels. A roar, distorted by countless winding passages cut deep into the sodden earth, shook the chamber. Though I could not quite discern the exact nature of the source of the cry, there was a vague suggestion to it, a thinly veiled menace that stirred such panic within me as I have never known. The roar was bestial in its quality, yet the rhythm of it, the timbre sounded almost human. My iron will was overthrown and I fled in a paroxysm of fright and terror. By the time I recovered myself, I was covered in mud and soaked to the bone, and laying amidst the drenched shadows of the construction site.

It took me some time to recover myself, and at first, I was certain that I had gone mad. Such things as I had seen – the inhuman suggestion in that haunting roar – such things could not be real. But with the light of day, my thoughts took on a firmer cast. Perhaps, I thought, there were other possibilities. Perchance there was some dark cult at work, or some evil conspiracy. Such things were certainly rare, but they were far from impossible. Yet whatever my suspicions, I knew that my word alone would not be enough, nor would a few bones. I would need a solid theory with associated evidence if I wished to dispatch a team of officers into the sewers, anything less would see me made a laughing stock and stripped of my position.

It was to that end that I decided to investigate the history of the town. If there were tunnels beneath the town then surely there must be some record of them, however slight or vague. Such records would also go some way to assuring me that I had not gone mad. The histories I uncovered, professor, were of a most troubling sort, an impression that was only exacerbated by the lengths to which I had to go to obtain them. The public libraries were of almost no worth at all, and it was only by delving into the most private of collections was I able to learn much. In this regard, Lieutenant Amodar once again proved his trustworthiness to me, for it was only his influence that allowed me access to such vaunted tomes.

As I had been taught, Bodhum had indeed started life as a small fishing village. What I had not known until then were the wild stories told by the very earliest of those fishermen. These were collected in a battered, ancient tome that had seen the better part of three centuries.

The fishermen spoke of an ancient tribe that had once occupied the land that Bodhum now stands on. They had worshipped the sky and the sea, but had done much of that worshipping in vast catacombs cut into the earth by unknown means. The end of the tribe came when the fishermen sought to claim the land for themselves. They were aided by a young woman of the tribe who had been exiled by her peers. This woman was said to possess the most remarkable features, but no tome I explored would describe them. In any case, the fishermen wiped out the tribe, and the foundations of the tribe's settlements formed the foundations for the town that would come to be called Bodhum. The tribe's tunnels and catacombs were either destroyed or incorporated into the new town's primitive sewer system. Interestingly, no mention is made of thunderstorms in the vicinity of Bodhum until the night the tribe was destroyed. From that night onwards, however, thunderstorms became a feature of the local weather, and there was not a year that went by without some poor fishermen being lost at sea in the midst of those terrible upheavals.

In later years, the tunnels, which stretched all the way to the sea, would find further use by smugglers desperate to avoid government scrutiny. In response, the government ordered the tunnels blocked up, though it is unlikely that all such orders were obeyed. Smugglers, I am told, were often an integral part of the community of coastal towns such as Bodhum. More remarkable is the strange fear that the townsfolk seemed to develop of thunderstorms. This fear was in utter excess to what might be expected of an otherwise hardy population, and it is striking that I could find no account at all of what exactly it was that the townsfolk feared. Still, what little information I could find seemed to implicate the descendants of that renegade tribeswoman.

It was that curious association that prompted me to investigate that family further. By all accounts, the family was of substantial means and prominence, which made the lack of information about them all the more puzzling. Later, I discovered that this lack of detail was quite deliberate. The townsfolk had, at some stage, made the decision to all but erase the family from history. The family's name was removed from all records, and only the vaguest descriptions of their dealings were retained. Of the family's appearance, there was almost no mention, save for references to the unusual colour of their hair, and the unearthly brightness of their eyes.

The cause for such action was revealed in a tattered diary preserved from more than two hundred years ago. For some reason or another, the townsfolk had come to believe that the family had made a pact with ancient and terrible beings, beings capable of shaping the weather itself, of calling down thunder and lightning. They whispered that perhaps the tribe had exiled the family's ancestor for a reason, and there were whispers of wild doings. The family's members were said to be witches – or worse – and to commit the very vilest atrocities, including the murder and sacrifice of countless innocents.

For a time, the townsfolk had no choice but to tolerate these excesses, so great was the family's influence. The pivotal moment came when a member of that family, perhaps horrified by what they had witnessed, confessed that all the accusations were true. The family was filled with monsters, and left to its own devices, its madness would surely drag the town into unfathomable abysses of horror. Aided by this renegade member of the family, the townsfolk launched a desperate assault upon the family's manor. Save for that solitary family member who had offered aid, the townsfolk put all others within the manor to the sword. The manor itself was first burned and then levelled to the ground. The catatcombs found beneath it were destroyed as well, and the decision was made to remove all trace of the family from Bodhum's records. For the most part they succeeded, and almost all that I have written here comes from a single source – a rotting diary more than two hundred years old.

I knew at once that I had to find that manor, to see for myself what horrors had been dispatched there so many years ago. But first I had something else to consider, a notion brought up once again by my intuition, by the memory of that chamber of bones and the roar that answered the thunder.

My attention turned to the records of crime kept by the Guardian Corps and then, once I had exhausted those, to the far less adequate records kept in less civilised times. At first, there was nothing. Certainly, there did not seem to be the elevated rate of murder one might expect if some maddening cult of degenerates truly were preying upon the people of this town. But then I came to consider another possibility – that the crimes had not been classified as murders at all, but as something else altogether. I turned my attention to missing person reports and other things of that nature, and slowly but surely a picture of utter horror emerged. The rate at which people went missing in Bodhum was indeed somewhat greater than would normally be expected. How could no one else have noticed this? Perhaps such disappearances were attributed to vagrancy, or to the somewhat festive nature of the town, both at least a little plausible, but both, I feared, far from accurate.

The suspicions I harboured were then confirmed when I collated reports of the weather. The disappearances usually involved revellers or vagrants – those often out and about during the darkest parts of the night – and almost all seemed to occur during one of the thunderstorms that periodically swept in from the sea. I might have laughed then, and if I did, it was no sane laugh, but a sound filled with all the madness building up within my soul. I had, I felt, stumbled across something utterly beyond the bounds of my everyday experience. The only matter left then was the manor, and knowing what I did, I could not rest until I found it.

Finding the manor proved more difficult than I had anticipated. None of the texts that I had examined provided a specific location for the manor, nor were any of the descriptions detailed enough to submit to further analysis. To further complicate matters, the manor had been burned and levelled, all but ensuring that no sign of it remained. In the end, I was forced to undertake a thorough study of the terrain around Bodhum. The manor had been outside of town, and of quite substantial size. Those two clues would have to be enough.

I identified several locations, trusting my intellect and intuition to guide me as they had done thus far. The first three proved to be of little help, but the fourth location, set amongst the tall, brooding hills just outside of Bodhum, proved to be more promising. Just driving up there filled me with a keen sense of dread that I had felt only once before – in that abhorrent chamber deep beneath the earth.

Once I arrived, I quickly got to work. After an afternoon of toil, I stumbled across the first sign that I might have found the manor at last. My shovel struck a thick layer of smashed stone and ash, and in a frenzy of excitement, I continued to delve into the earth until at last I uncovered the battered foundations of a large building. But still, this was not enough. It was only when I came across a pit filled with bones, some human, and others maddeningly deformed, that I was certain. I had found the manor of that accursed family, and soon, I found the remains of a tunnel, one that must have, at some earlier time, led deep into the bowels of the earth.

I cannot say that I felt much elation at my discovery. If anything, I felt a sense of revulsion, of unmitigated fright beyond all human endurance. Something monstrous had lived here, and now, the shadows of that terror were reaching out, riding the thunder with fangs and claws made sharp by centuries of unhallowed hunger. Shaken, and barely coherent, I went to Lieutenant Amodar to set out my conjecture. To his credit, he listened keenly and asked several questions that demonstrated his full engagement with the matter. However, he could not authorise the scouring of the sewers by a large force of armed officers. My lack of progress in the case had infuriated the local politicians, and moves were already being made to replace me. The lieutenant had done his best to protect me, but his efforts had left his political capital sadly exhausted. If I wished to have the sewers scoured, I would need proof – physical proof of incontrovertible nature. That left me with but a single option.

That very night I returned to the construction site, and from there I went to that tunnel. There, beneath the pale moonlight of a cloudless sky, that shadowed circle seemed for all the world like a portal to the edges of creation. I could have walked away, I suppose, for what sane person would walk into the darkness knowing what it hid? But instead, I steeled my nerves as best I could and proceeded. I am officer of the law, professor, and that means I must stand against evil, whatever form it takes, and however great it is.

I was quite some way into the system of tunnels when I felt a most peculiar sensation sweep through me. Yet it was a sensation I knew very well. A storm was coming, and within moments, I heard the crack of thunder above me, and the rush of water came from all sides. The timing of it all was most unfortunate, for I was caught in a sharply slanting tunnel, and before I knew it, the flood of water swept me off into the fevered darkness. I cried out then, I am sure of it, but my cries were swallowed up by the foul waters and the soaked earth around me. At some point I struck my head, and my consciousness fled, leaving me to dreams filled with leering half-human faces and glittering eyes of impossible brightness.

When I finally regained myself, I was slumped against the walls of another tunnel. With little choice, but with my flashlight and pistol both lost, I groped forward as best I could. I wandered through that darkness for what felt like forever before I finally reached a chamber, one far larger than I could have imagined. It was as large as a stadium, so vast that my mind struggled to absorb the sheer size of it. I wondered at first how I could see at all without my flashlight, but then another bolt of lightning sizzled through the sky, and I understood. This chamber, this titan colosseum, was open in many places to the sky, and it was the storm above that provided light. And in that light, I saw something that shook me to my very core, a shock so great, that even my research could not prepare me for it.

For you see, professor, the chamber was full of bodies. They absolutely filled it, a veritable carpet of mangled corpses, all in varying states of decay. There were men there, and women and children, and even animals. And there too, gnawing and biting, laughing and tearing, were those responsible. They were hunched things, looking very much like devolved apes or humans, though the faint, inconsistent light made it hard to see clearly. I should have turned back then, but I had come too far for that, so instead, I crept closer, inching my way into the chamber and hiding in a crevice.

These creatures, I was certain, were the ultimate result of some foul bargain between man and that which could not come from any sane part of the universe. They were the reason the ancient townsfolk had feared the thunder, and they were the reason those townsfolk had laid waste the manor and all that lived within. As I watched, the lightning crackled through the sky again, and as the thunder boomed past, the beasts gave cries of their own, and raised their claws to the heavens. Sparks of lightning flashed, not from the sky this time, but from those long, jagged claws that looked so very much like hands. Now, at last, I knew how they had killed those poor construction workers, and how they had carved the tunnels out of the earth. That ancient family had made a pact with the unholy beings that called up the thunder and the lightning, and in exchange, they had been warped, transformed perhaps, into something that could harness some small measure of that power.

For centuries, the storms had called up these creatures, these vile aberrations, and it had driven them to kill and maim. As the tumult overhead grew stronger, I saw the creatures begin to sway back and forth in insane fashion, their voices raised in some unearthly ululation that seemed to echo the cadence of the thunder. Their backs were to me as they turned their faces up to the sky, and bayed and howled and danced. I felt a shiver run through me, as my intuition called up a memory, one that I had long treasured. I do not treasure it anymore.

As I have said professor, I have always had a peculiar affinity for thunderstorms. They do not frighten me, but my intuition has always been able to predict them. There are even times when I turned my gaze out to the sea expectantly, knowing long before anyone else that a storm is coming. My younger sister has yet to show such ability, but I remember there were times when my mother was still alive, when she would gather both of us into her embrace, and take us to watch the storm. She would rock us, singing some wordless song beneath her breath as the sky tore itself apart.

But just as quickly as it had come, the memory faded. What were people thinking to build a town atop the bones of this horrid past? Terrible things had been done here, and still a town had been built, still people had delved into the earth, never thinking of what they might unearth, of what ancient horror lay still brooding beneath them. But perhaps I could end it here. There were only a dozen or so of the creatures, and I had the element of surprise. The bones scattered about would make fine weapons, and they could hardly be more than beasts. I could outwit them and put an end to this centuries old cycle of ruin. I was gathering myself to strike when I heard it.

It was a deep sound, far deeper in pitch than thunder, and it seemed to shake the chamber. It was the sound of countless feet, of unnumbered claws scraping the earth. And what it implied was so horrific as to drive the very breath from my lungs. Mere moments later, hundred, perhaps thousands of the vile creatures began to flood into the chamber. That alone should have been enough to unhinge me, to damn me forever to madness, but somehow, I stayed sane. It was what followed that truly broke something within me, my soul perhaps, if indeed I actually have one. Monsters, I feel, should not have souls.

The sudden rush of bodies jarred my footing and I tumbled from my crevice right into the middle of the inhuman throng. At that very moment, a flash of lightning lit the sky, and at last I was close enough to make out their features clearly. I remembered too, the words that had been written about the accursed family in the haggard tomes I had examined.

Their unusual colour of hair…

The brightness of their eyes…

The accursed family that had birthed these abominations was known for their remarkable features, and there, in the brutal glow of the lightning, I saw the unspeakable truth. The creatures had faces with an unmistakably human cast, though they were badly degraded, enough that a casual observer might call them monster or ape. But what drew my eye, what scorched my soul, were the thin scraps of hair that clung to their skulls – scraps of hair that were a shade of pink quite familiar to me. And their eyes… Maker, if there is any mercy in the universe, would that I had not seen their eyes. There was animal cunning in those eyes, but human evil as well, and every single eye that I saw, every single one, was the same unmistakably brilliant shade of blue that I see in the mirror every day.

In that instant of mind breaking realisation, every memory I had of thunderstorms and of my mother came to the fore. She had loved thunderstorms, and she had studied genetics, and then she had met her end. Had she realised then what she truly was? Had science finally revealed the truth that I have now come to realise? After all, not all of that accursed family were killed. One had cooperated with the townsfolk, and so that one had been spared, but might not their blood also carry the curse? Might not their blood also be the product of unspeakable unions between men and things with neither name nor solid shape? And might not still others have escaped the purge by fleeing into the tunnels, to brood, and hunger, and kill, and turn into monsters over the span of centuries?

Horrified, I stumbled about, and every monster there turned to face me. If I had any doubts of my conclusions, they were removed when the next peal of thunder rang out. The creatures rushed out, leaving through countless tunnels, and not a single one of them laid hands on me.

Why would they?

We were kin.

I stumbled out of that chamber of endless secrets and faithless lies, and found myself swept up in a fast flowing current of water. It carried me to some far off stormwater drain where I was found the next day. Not a single person would believe my tale, and Lieutenant Amodar quietly recommended that I take leave to recover from what had clearly been a most shocking experience – the sort of experience that might lead to the fabrication of wild stories. All the same, however, he did follow my advice to double patrols on days when a thunderstorm is expected. He may not believe me entirely, but he trusts me, and that means very much.

As you can imagine, the newspapers had a field day. I became the object of immense scrutiny, so when Amodar offered to extend my leave – and with pay – I was only too happy to agree. My leave also gave me time to plan, and you may recall that not too long ago someone sabotaged the sewer system, flooding it entirely. The culprit, professor, has yet to be caught, and I am certain it will stay that way. I do not know if mere water can efface the horror that I encountered, but at the very least, it should bury it for a time.

And there my story ends, professor, and by now it should be clear why I contacted you. I have heard whispers of you from others, whispers that speak of your study of forbidden things. Like myself, you have come across dark hints of the wider universe, a universe in which man is small to the point of insignificance.

I know what I am, professor, and that knowledge sickens me beyond all description. But I have a sister, and she has never known when thunderstorms are coming, nor have they ever fascinated her. If the Maker has any mercy, perhaps she has avoided the curse that dwells within my blood. It is for her alone that I endure.

But I wonder how much longer I can go on. As of late, I find myself looking more and more to the sky over the sea, and as of late, the thunderstorms have come with greater and greater frequency. Am I calling them? Or are they calling me? There are times when I hear the boom of thunder, and I feel something inside me stir, something that wishes to laugh and sing, and bray and dance, all to the cadence of the storm. If that ever happens, then I will shoot myself. I have also acquired a rather curious habit of breaking machinery. It is not, I assure you, a matter of clumsiness. In fact, closer examination of the machines I break seems to suggest that they have suffered damage not unlike that created by a sudden surge of electricity. Some would call it bad luck, but I know it has nothing at all to do with luck. Those creatures could call lightning with their claws, and perhaps I am not so different.

If there is a way to undo the dark bargain that has made me a monster, professor, I intend to find it, and if there is not, then I shall see to it that the madness ends with me. My sister seems free of this taint, and I will ensure that she never knows what our ancestors did, or what forces they meddled with.

Let us help one another. You lost your wife to the same sort of madness that has robbed me of any peace or hope. Perhaps together we might find a solution, perhaps at least one of us might find peace. I only pray that there is still time.

Sincerely,

Sergeant Claire Farron.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I neither own Final Fantasy, nor am I making any money off of this.
> 
> Well, I thought it was time to write something a little different, and a little bit of Lovecraft is about as different as it gets (in comparison to what I've been working on recently). Astute readers will notice that the story contains ideas adapted from a range of Lovecraft's stories, such as The Horror at Redhook, The Shadow Over Innsmouth, The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, and The Lurking Fear. All four stories are amongst the best of Lovecraft's work, and I strongly recommend that any fan of horror (or fiction in general) read them. If it helps, they can easily be found for free on the internet, and you will be surprised by just how widely Lovecraft's influence has permeated fiction, even beyond the confines of horror, science fiction, and fantasy.
> 
> With regards to the chapter itself, I decided to give Lightning a somewhat tortured background. There are few things quite as horrifying as realising that you are a monster, except perhaps, watching yourself slowly turn into one. Whether or not she gives in to her horrific ancestry is a matter for the future. The format of an epistolary is also well suited to this sort of horror.
> 
> As always, I appreciate feedback. Reviews and comments are welcome.


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